I've been working on a different SEAL team story but then I rewatched S1-07 the other day and all of a sudden I was off on a completely different tangent. First try in this Fandom so hope it works.
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It's been two weeks since Brian's chute failed to open.
Technically it partially opened if you really wanted to get into irrelevant details. The after action reports apparently did because they had made the distinction even though it made no difference. The end result was still the same and it was still 14 long shitty days since Clay watched the rest of second stick land safely while his friend drew the short straw and paid far too high a price in a pointless training mission.
Coincidentally it's now also exactly two weeks until the end of said training because life moves fast, even when you don't want it to and especially in the military. There are new missions to complete and final training runs to finish and they are back at it within a week of Brian's passing. Death notification, funeral, debriefs, and mandatory days off all slotted neatly into a compact 7 day stand down period and on the 8th day they are back up in a plane for another jump. Back in the saddle or something like that.
Clay is thoroughly on board with getting moving again even if his heart pounds just a little bit extra stepping off the lip of the plane and he closes his eyes for a moment in relief when his chute opens successfully. The downtime in his mind had been extra insult to injury giving him way too much time to replay that day and play the "what if' game. Like what if Brian had grabbed a different bag... or cut away his line sooner… or what if they'd slept through their alarms that day all together. He comes up with what feels like a thousand minor alterations that would have changed the parameters of the scenario just enough to mean that Brian would still be here.
But instead he finds himself in this uncomfortable middle ground. Stuck between grieving his friend and the growing elation he can't quite stamp out about as he moves one day closer to achieving his goal of being in DEVRGU. He is both completely ready and absolutely not ready to be back at it.
Because when they do get going again each day seems to bring new ways to painfully remind him of his missing teammate who should be getting to experience this homestretch as well. For example it hits him hard the first time he gears up next to an empty locker. Then there's the first time someone unknowingly sits in Brian's spot at lunch and even worse the pit in his stomach when he finishes the obstacle course and turns to taunt Brian only to find he isn't right behind him. He tries to put those feelings aside and buy into the excited buzz surrounding the end of their cycle. Upcoming drafts. Team speculation. Increasingly complex missions and final tests. It's a constant push and pull of conflicting emotions that he files away behind his usual cocky grin and smart ass remarks. The looks he sometimes catches from Master Chief Seaver out of the corner of his eye tell him he isn't always successful at faking it but he keeps trying anyways. And slowly he gets caught up in the merriment all the candidates are feeling about finally seeing the light at the end of the tunnel, aka draft day that will decide their future as tier one operators.
After their training mission today he allows himself to relish in the good vibes that follow a job well done. Their squad completed their objective clean and clear and well under time limit. The instructors had barely found a thing to critique and the boys were feeling their oats as they head back to base in the back of the transport.
Amidst the good humor and commradery, its something trivial and stupid that sends an unexpected shot of grief through coursing through him. The guys call him on his bullshit about having plans tonight, accurately surmising that he is ditching them to go see Stella and today's gut punch reminds him of Brian's last words to him which had happened to be about her. "Try not to screw it up". He was trying. On so many levels. God he wished the man was here to join in on taunting him right now.
His morose thoughts are violently interrupted in a screech of brakes and the crunch of metal that sends their truck lurching sideways. The impact is sudden, jarring and completely unexpected and the occupants inside are thrown from their seats in a jumble of bodies. Clay goes airborne for a second launching headfirst into the other side of the truck before the trucks momentum corrects and sends him back towards the seat he just left. Unfortunately he doesn't stick the landing and his back makes contact with the corner of the steel bench rather then his butt and then he tumbles down to the floor in a heap where he lies winded. His head is spinning and his ribs are screaming and he lays still and for a second unsure if he is in the backwoods of Virginia or if his truck just hit an IED in J-Bad. Before he can catch his breath or get a handle on the pain or figure out what the hell happened and what country he is actually in the doors are wrenched open and hands are grabbing at him. Shouting. Pulling him from the floor where he slides less than gracefully out and land hard on his knees on the concrete.
The rough treatment is unexpected and in his stupor he wonders where the hell these people learned to do first aid because he's pretty sure this is the opposite of what you are supposed to do. Thankfully he doesn't actually verbalize the question because the penny drops a few seconds later when two more of his teammates have been pulled out and someone shouts at them to put their hands behind their heads.
Fuck.
SERE school.
He blames the header he took into the wall for how embarrassingly long it took him to figure it out.
They knew it was coming and that they would have to endure 3 days of simulated torture and interrogation at some point as one of their final trials. But damn he wasn't expecting it to happen like this. He had to give it to them this was unexpectedly good and had thrown him completely off kilter. It probably doesn't bode well for the rest of the course. As if to confirm that ominous thought someone pulls a hood over his head and things go dark.
They are piled into a different transport and go for a ride. The scenery is terrible thanks to their new head accessories, but it does give him time to compose himself. To get his game face on and mentally prepare for whatever is coming next. He is kicking himself for already missing the first critical escape window. Its a well known fact that your best change at escape is at the moment of capture. Statistically your odds drop off dramatically after that. No matter, he will be ready going forward and he won't miss the next opportunity. This may not be real, but it is another test for him to prove he belongs.
Too soon they arrive and its go time. It's all business as their captors efficiently unload them and lead them through to a wide open courtyard. The order comes to strip, and he almost rolls his eyes the predictability of that. He exchanges glances with a few of the guys and they smirk as they obey and then stand at attention in their skivvies while someone drones on about something or other up front.
They stand…
And stand…
And stand some more...
Perhaps they are trying to bore them into breaking right off the bat. Hell they might be onto something with this. There are fewer things more painful to men of action then standing around doing nothing. And if that isn't bad enough throw in someone prattling on about something.
As he waits he can feel the adrenaline fading and some of the aches and pains from the events of the day setting in. Apparently rolling around in a truck will make random parts of your body sore. He doubts there will be a feedback section at the end of the SERE course but if there was perhaps they could consider seatbelts before their next staged hijacking. By tomorrow he imagines there will probably be a few good bruises, but then again maybe that is what they were going for, a base layer before they purposefully add some more on top. He mentally starts calculating just how long three days really is... 3 days x 24 hours x 60 minutes x 60 seconds = a whole lot of time to do some damage. 259,000 seconds to be precise. He knows they won't really do anything too permanent. Not when they have invested so much time and money in their future operators. But these guys are also the best at what they do and he is sure they can do a lot without actually doing a lot.
Done with his private pity party and ready do something useful he starts scanning the encampment for possible escape routes. Mentally noting the possible exits, guard posts, security cameras, anything that might be important if he gets the chance to make a run for it. He is on his third sweep when his lack of attention is discovered and a sharp blow to his back brings him back in a hurry and puts him down onto all fours with a grunt. He bites his lip and breathes through the sharp spike in pain that shoots through his lower back. Just his luck that the blow landed on the exact same spot that collided with the truck bench earlier in the evening. Its that soft fleshy part right above his left kidney and damn if it doesn't hurt like a son of a bitch right now.
After a second he turns his head angrily behind him to see a guard watching him recover, the butt end of his rifle poised for another jab if need be.
"Get up"
He wants to launch himself at that smug fucker and give him a taste of his own medicine. The gun is for sure fake, or at least not loaded. There's no way they take the risk of having live ammo in SERE. Way too much room for something to go wrong. He longs to dispossess him of his weapon and bash on his kidneys a few times and see if he is still smiling then. But before he can act on that violent urge the sight of Master Chief Seaver standing on the periphery catches his attention. Watching, scrutinizing the situation and what is more, Clay can see the expectation clear as day on his face. His training officer is waiting for him to go off, fully expecting him to do something stupid like jumping on a grenade or starting a fight that will get him kicked out of SERE.
Its that fact, and only that fact that keeps him in his place.
He stares defiantly at Adam as he slowly clambers to his feet and retakes his position at attention. Plastering back on the same fake emotionless mask he has been perfecting over the last few weeks.
His altercation with the guard apparently had no bearing on the speech that is still ongoing up front and he tunes back in just in time to hear the tail end of it and catch the final instructions that make him groan again, this time for an entirely different reason.
You have got to be kidding.
Rolling his eyes he complies begrudgingly, determined to show Seaver that he doesn't know him as well as he thinks he does. That Clay Spenser can play the good little meek soldier when it is smart to do so.
Apparently the others are taking the same approach because soon enough there is a line of very strong, very capable, practically naked soon to be tier one operators, shuffling single file on their hands and knees being herded like sheep towards what he presumes are the barracks.
What a sight they must be. He makes a mental note to make sure Stella never, ever finds out about this
By the time they make it across the courtyard his back is throbbing, his knees are raw and he is ready to take his "shepherds" Ak-47 cane and shove it somewhere the sun don't shine. Damn he wished they let you fight back at SERE school. But absent that option he grits his teeth and lets the asshole poke and prod him towards what is apparently going to be his accommodations for the night.
A cage.
And not a particularly large one either. Just perfect.
He pauses, contemplating the best way to try to fit his large frame into the contraption that looks about the size for a medium dog at best. Finding no better alternative he channels his inner lassie and crawls into the metal box, drawing in his limbs and curling up
out of necessity. He can't quite sit up straight, but he can at least move around a little. Score one for being average height. This is going to really suck for some of the taller guys. The gate slams shut inches from his face with a finality that tells him he is in for the night. He can't quite resist getting the last word and gives his guard a loud parting "woof."
The only response he gets is the door to the room slamming shut with a loud metallic clang that reverberates in the enclosed space and sets of a chain reaction of rattling mettle cages.
Seconds later the symphony of screaming death metal drowns out that noise. Not to be outdone a mystery baby joins in and screams their lungs out on the recording as well. The final piece de resistance, lights flickering on and off ensures complete and total sensory overload. And probably a complete and total lack of sleep in his future.
Clay sighs and shifts around in his cage, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.
Yep, this is going to be a fun couple of days. Only 231,796 or so more minutes to go, but who is counting right?
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This was supposed to be a one shot... oops. Looking like it will be a three parter